


out to sea

by cosmicwarden (necrotype)



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Implied Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield, Minor Kíli/Tauriel, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-08
Updated: 2018-08-08
Packaged: 2019-06-23 22:26:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15616365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/necrotype/pseuds/cosmicwarden
Summary: Tauriel, like many elves before her, feels drawn to the sea after the battle.





	out to sea

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in 2014 and never posted it because I had (at the time) intended to finish it. But it's been sitting in my drafts for long enough, and it's finished enough I think. Title is from Ólafur Arnalds' song of the same name (which I listened to on repeat while writing). Hover over Sindarin for translations (as a note, they're from my notes made in 2014; hopefully they're mostly accurate).

Tauriel did not weep any longer. Her tears were ice against her cheeks, but she was drained of them entirely, spent and exhausted. Loss was a physical weight on her shoulders, and her spine seemed to creak under it. Below Ravenhill, the air thrummed with the deep notes of horns and songs of lament, and the crunch of icy earth under Elvish boots as they departed.

Her hands ached from the weight of his lifeless body. The blood had already dried—frozen, likely, in this air—but it stuck to her skin like a reminder. He seemed so small in her bruised arms, and his mouth was still partly opened, lips still shaped around the word. It echoed in Tauriel’s head, though she still didn’t know what it meant. Amrâlimê—it was a lovely word, and it sounded joyous on his lips, but it rang bitter in her mind. Kíli was a star extinguished, a fire moon that had lost its bright light, and he would never tell her what it meant, after all.

“ _Gi melin_ ,” she whispered, and her throat burned around the words.

His body only gave her silence. Kíli looked peaceful in death, even with the dirt and blood on his skin. With a ragged gasp, Tauriel lifted snow from the rocky ground and began to wash away the grime from his face, but it only smeared further. Her brows drew together, and she looked up at the darkening sky with a pained grimace. It seemed to her that waves ebbed at her thoughts and left the taste of salt in her mouth. The feeling was familiar, like homesickness after a long journey.

A noise stirred Tauriel from her thoughts, heavy boots stepping on the snow-covered rocks with little grace. She looked over her shoulder and regarded the older Dwarf evenly. His beard—long, longer than Kíli’s was—was a bright white, through it was marred with blood and dirt. His face was grief carved into stone, but he looked at her with pity. She ducked her face away.

“Forgive me,” Tauriel said, and her voice shook very slightly. “I only wanted more time with him.” She dug her fingers into Kíli’s arm and tried to remember his laugh, but all that she could hear was his breath, rattling, as he fell.

“There is nothing to forgive.” His voice was very kind. Tauriel recoiled from it: she did not deserve the compassion of Kíli’s friends.

Tauriel wiped at her face. “Will you bury him?” The words hung in the air between them, weighted.

“Aye,” he said, hushed and soft. “Under stone and song.” He moved closer, hand raised as if to comfort her, but she shied away from his touch.

“Leave me,” Tauriel said, barely audible above the wind. “ _Please._ ” She let him take Kíli from her arms without a word, and she refused to look at him. Her eyelids felt heavy. Tauriel could hear him speaking to her, in the Common Tongue, but she couldn’t make out the words over her thoughts of the sea, waves crashing on rocks and gulls screeching.

He and his kin took Kíli back to the mountain. Tauriel almost called out after him, a flood of apologies and nonsensical grief on her lips, but she couldn’t. Her face felt numb as they left her on Ravenhill, truly alone. She looked down at her hands; she could still feel the pressure of Kíli.

Time stretched and stretched, until the sun finally sank fully below the horizon and the stars came out. Legolas found her, sitting on the edge of the hill, empty-handed and shaking. He said nothing, and he stood from a distance until she turned to face him. A cold and rotten grief had settled heavy in her stomach.

“I cannot stay here any longer,” Tauriel said. Her voice was a small thing, weak and tremulous. Her hands closed around empty air and shadows; she wished that she had her daggers, worn and chipped from centuries of use, but they too were lost to the ice.

Legolas hesitated, and then he shifted closer to her on the rocks. He took her bloody hand in his own and grasped it tightly, until it almost felt warm. “Will you walk with me again, my twin? I go to the North, to meet with the Dúnedain.” His words sounded distant to her ears.

Tauriel looked out over the fields below, and her hair danced in the wind like wisps of flame. She couldn’t meet his desperate eyes. “No.” She felt more than heard Legolas’s pained sound, and it seemed that his whole body curled in on itself.

“Why not?” he asked weakly. “My father has not kept you banished. The darkness on our woods has been expelled, and we can heal the trees again.” Legolas paused, looking almost fragile as a gloom settled over his features. He pressed his lips to her red hair to hide his sadness, and she could feel his tears as they fell. “Where will you go?”

Tauriel bit down on her lip. “I feel restless,” she admitted. She squeezed his hand tightly. “My thoughts are filled with salt and gulls. The sea is calling me away.” She took a deep breath. Her bruised and fractured bones ached as she moved. Slowly, and with great care, she tucked her face against his neck.

“ _Gwanunig nin_ —” Legolas started before trailing off. He sounded very lost.

“I will leave these unhappy shores.” The words choked her for a moment. “These lands hold nothing for me anymore.” The desire to depart shamed her, left her feeling weak and foolish, but the thought of remaining was too painful to imagine.

“Promise me, sister,” Legolas spoke softly, and now his voice trembled with every word. “That we will meet again in Valinor.”

Tauriel’s breath hitched, and she made a small noise against the curve of his neck. She had to push down the swell of emotion, so that she could speak properly. “ _Navaer_ , my twin.”

* * *

She stumbled away from the mountain, with a quiet need to sail away, and the feeling that she might fade from this world on the way. Her kind did not often need rest, but when weary and weighed down with grief, they slept as any mortal did. But even in sleep, Tauriel was plagued by echoes and visions, the feeling of icy blood against her palms and his lips moving around the shape of a single world. And always, she dreamt of waves, not the sight but the sound, and the taste of salt.

Tauriel travelled with great care through woods and plains, and across snow-covered mountains which seemed almost cleansed. Orcs and spiders did not trouble her, though she kept her bow ready, and even the howling of wolves was rare most nights. When the sun gave way to starry skies, she would take a moment to see them, and sometimes she thought of the sky Kíli must have seen. What would a Dwarf call Anarrima—the sun border—or the Eagle of the West? The thought made her ill; she was never given the chance to ask Kíli what he saw at night, from his mountains on the other side of Arda. On those nights, she hardly slept, and her dreams were filled with shrieking gulls and waves crashing against rocks.

The snow gave way to narrow rock, and soon she found herself in a gorge which seemed almost out-of-place, otherworldly and happy. The magic of Imladris was a soothing balm to Tauriel’s worn self, and the air smelled sweet. Even in winter, the trees were a deep green, and flowers bloomed in every crevice.

It had been many years since Tauriel had seen this place, and even then she was with her king. Her people, the Silvan, were called the wildest of Elves. When they were young, Legolas often told her that her rare and fiery hair was a reflection of her temperament. She would hit him in return, but it was true that she felt young and ungainly around her Sindarin and Noldorin cousins, and her speech seemed clumsy compared to their smooth words.

The Elves sang in lilting voices to her as she walked, welcoming her to their halls. Tauriel looked down at her clothing, still blood-stained and coated in dust and dirt, and flushed. In a quiet courtyard, she found an Elf, with dark hair cascading over a dress the color of a pale morning. The ache in Tauriel’s heart seemed to soften at the sight, and she bowed lowly.

“Welcome, Tauriel of Mirkwood,” the Elf said in a musical voice, tipping her head forward. She stepped closer and placed a comforting hand on Tauriel’s arm. “It is good to see you again.”

“My Lady,” Tauriel replied. She held herself upright and stiff, to keep from sagging into the touch. “You are always a welcome sight, especially in these times.”

Arwen looked at her with a terrible pity, and she turned with Tauriel still in hand. They walked for some time in silence, though it seemed almost loud to Tauriel, buzzing with unspoken words. The walkways of Rivendell shone with a honey-gold light, dappled through the trees. Passing Elves bowed to their Lady, and they each gave Tauriel a respectful nod.

“What brings you here?” Arwen finally asked, once they had reached a small room overlooking the mountains. She led Tauriel to a bench to sit, then turned to fetch a drink from an ornately shaped pitcher. It was warm on Tauriel’s tongue, almost spicy, and she nodded gratefully while considering her next words. Arwen sat delicately across from her.

“The battle at Erebor,” she started, slow and halting, “took many dear . . . things from me." She looked down at the drink in her hands. “I feel drawn to the West. The world goes on, but I feel that I cannot any longer. This weakness—” She trailed off and shrugged helplessly.

Arwen sighed softly. “You have seen much, _mellon_.” The term sounded very sweet to Tauriel’s ears, and she almost smiled despite herself. “Is it wrong that you wish to rest?”

Tauriel turned her face up and met Arwen’s sympathetic eyes. The words were tinged with an old pain, and her brow had creased the smallest amount. “I had hoped to find comfort here, among my cousins,” Tauriel admitted. Indeed, her limbs were not as weary as before, and her head did not echo with wave so loudly. But she still felt the need to move, to keep traveling to the coast. “The rest I need is not here. But Valinor—that place is entirely unknown to me! My people have never seen the white shores. We have only stories, not memories, and I fear that I will not find what I need there.”

“Do you wish to leave?” Arwen asked gently. Tauriel took a deep breath and nodded shakily. “Then make your choice. Do not let your heart be troubled with this decision. If you cannot call Middle Earth home any longer, then perhaps you will find peace across the waters.”

Tauriel hesitated, and then she let out a loud breath.. “Yes, yes, everything points me West. You lighten my heart, my Lady.”

Heat bloomed across Tauriel’s cheeks as the Lady smiled at her; the whole room seemed to light up with her happiness. “Imladris will give you some measure of peace, I hope. Stay here as long as you need. We will help you when you wish to leave.”

“I doubt I will stay long,” Tauriel said, hand plucking at her clothing. The drink was still warm in her hands, and it diffused throughout her body. “But thank you.” She laughed for the first time in weeks; the tone was strange, as though her throat had forgotten how to produce the sound, but she felt light. “I’m afraid that I will need help with building a ship: I haven’t either the tools or the knowledge.”

Arwen arched a lovely brow. “All Elves can build a ship to sail West. We are born with this knowledge.” She chuckled lightly, like bells ringing. “But I can give you tools.”

Time passed slowly in Rivendell. The days stretched on and on in this place, untouched by sorrow, and the nights were long and filled with stars. Tauriel passed from hall to hall, though she didn’t speak to any of the Elves other than the Lady Arwen, and she always returned to the most westward room, where she would watch the sun sink below the horizon. One morning, she met a young boy—Estel, he told her proudly—who followed Arwen like a determined little shadow; he hardly had any words for her, as eager as he was to impress his Lady. Tauriel often found herself smiling at his antics, though the thoughts of Kíli which soon followed left her empty and hollow.

Her sea-longing waxed and waned weakly; it was always at the edge of her mind, though the joy of her cousins and the ease of Rivendell kept it quiet. The illusion of healing did not last long, and Tauriel soon felt the familiar restlessness grow too strong to ignore.

The Evenstar met with her, in the quiet courtyard by a whispering fountain. She smiled widely at Tauriel, though it was tinged with a soft sadness. In her hands, she held a small leather pack. “The time has come, I see,” she said in that birdsong voice. She pushed the bag into Tauriel’s shaking hands. “Here are the tools that I promised.”

Pulling at the thin strings, Tauriel opened the bag and let out a soft gasp. The tools within were expertly carved, with delicate words etched into the wooden handles; they were small blessings, praising the Valar and Eru, and they asked for a safe voyage. Tauriel ran her fingers over the letters wordlessly. The axe—slender and elegantly curved, so typical of Elvish works and so starkly different from the axes of Dwarves—was especially decorated: the words were a poem, thanking trees for their sacrifice and praising Yavanna for her help.

“My Lady!” she said, wide-eyed. “I—these are beautiful. Thank you.”

“Think nothing of it,” Arwen said, inclining her head slightly. She clasped her hands over Tauriel’s wrist and bent to kiss her lightly on the forehead. “These tools are well-suited to you, and they will speed your journey home. _Harthon gerithach aeair vilui._ ”

“ _Navaer_ , my Lady Arwen,” Tauriel said, with a low bow. “ _Belain na le._ "

Despite her rest, Tauriel felt tired, and the weariness only grew with every step away from Rivendell. The sea-longing tugged at her more insistently, and waves crashed heavily against her thoughts. She would endure, until she reached the ocean, and then home beyond.

* * *

The trees of Eryn Vorn were strong, and very old. Remnants of an age filled with shipbuilding and fire, they had a strange power to them, and Tauriel felt that she was being watched as she moved through the clustered branches. She was no stranger to darkened woods, but even spiderless, these trees made her feel uneasy.

The woods of Mirkwood spoke of sickness and poisoning; they warned the Elves of danger and tricked the unwelcome, even as they began to rot and turn to malice. But these trees sang of the Sea-kings who used them to build great sea-faring ships and the protection which their branches gave to the people of Minhiriath; the words were seeped with a dangerous sort of pride, even when speaking of the Númenóeans. 

The song hung in the air like smoke. Tauriel felt young and small. Her axe was heavy in her hands. She pressed a hand against a sturdy tree. “ _Goheno nin_ ,” she murmured. “And thank you for your sacrifice.” The leaves rustled in the wind, and the tree did not feel angry under her touch. The bark felt proud, joyous even, as she made the first strike.

Cutting the trees was mindless work. Tauriel lost herself in the purposeful swings and in the aches of her arms. Before she felled a tree, she asked for forgiveness and whispered her thanks into the bark; each tree echoed a range of strange emotions back, pride and eagerness and a true lack of sorrow. Hauling the logs to the shore was the hardest; alone, it took her the better part of the day to bring only a few logs from the forest to the coastline.

At night, Tauriel would sleep in the open air, taking comfort in the starlight. The salty wind tugged at her flaming hair, calling her to leave, and the sea made her heart heavy. Her exhaustion, settled deep in her muscles and bones, made it easy to sleep: dark dreams of Kíli could not reach her weary mind, and she only saw visions of the sea and her axe, hacking with a steady beat. She rose with the sun in the morning, taking the axe into her newly calloused hands, and her thoughts were occupied with sailing when she took a moment to breathe. Her mind felt surprisingly clear; the cape had a strange, dream-like peace about it, and she was content with her decision to leave.

When all of the necessary logs were piled onto the sand, far from the water to prevent damp and mold, Tauriel began to whittle them down. Her hands knew how to shape the logs into planks; the wood seemed to sing under her hands, instructing her and guiding her work. In her hands, the tools were precise, and her body knew how to use them for her purpose. It was slow work, with only two hands, but she carved the boat to life lovingly.

The finished boat left her breathless. It looked more a riverboat than one for a sea-voyage, but it was complete. Tauriel sat on a nearby rocky outcropping, and she stared at it until the sun was close to setting. The richly colored sky made the wood seem weathered and beautiful. She could hear gulls crying out over the shore, and her heart clenched in her chest; she tightened her fingers around a stretch of rope until her skin burned.

Her fingers were almost translucent, now, just barely beginning to fade. The sea-longing in her heart was strong, overwhelming, and she knew that her time on Middle Earth was truly finished. She turned her face to the sky.

“I am sorry, Kíli,” Tauriel said, lowly. Tears slipped from her eyes. For months, she had ignored his memory, wiped him from her mind so she could keep working without falling under the weight of her grief. His name was bittersweet on her tongue. “I could not protect you, and I could not keep my promise.”

She sounded very young, and lost, to her own ears, but her sorrow was not crushing her, and speaking to his memory made her light-headed and very nearly happy. “I hated to dream of you,” she admitted to the gulls circling overhead. “I couldn’t bear to see your face bloodied and pained. I never seemed to remember your smiles, or your reckless motions. I fear I’ve ignored you for too long.” Her mouth twitched, almost curving up softly.

“Would that I could touch your face again.” Her voice shattered around a sob. “You were more beautiful than any starlight, warmer than the sun, and time has taken you from me.” She began to weep openly, but she smiled. “ _Meleth nin!_ I will love you until the world ends. I will love you when we meet again as it is remade. Time cannot keep you. Amrâlimê!” The word was heavily accented; Kíli would laugh if he had heard her, struggling to speak Khuzdul with a voice too light and airy for such a language. “Amrâlimê.” She pressed her face to her hands, and she cried until her tears were spent and her face was numb, and she fell into a deep sleep.

* * *

When Tauriel woke, she found a Dwarf standing by her boat, running a ringed hand over the smooth wood. She gaped, mouth working soundlessly, as the Dwarf turned to face her. The similarities were there, in the sharp nose and dark eyes, the black hair braided neatly with beads, and it seemed that she was seeing a spirit; her words from the previous night were fresh wounds which ached at the sight. But no, this Dwarf had a harder face, worn with age and lined with grief, and a fuller beard streaked with silver.

“Are you Tauriel?” The voice was high-pitched and clear, the sound of crystals clinking together.

“I am,” she said, with some difficulty. The words were soft, hardly audible around the painful lump in her throat. The Dwarf bowed her head slightly.

“And I am Dís, at your service.” Her face softened somewhat. “I have come a long way to meet with you,” she said, and Tauriel finally noticed her garb, worn and covered in grime with boots coated evenly with dust. Even so, armor glimmered beneath, and Dís had a hand resting on the pommel of her sword.

“Then you are lucky,” Tauriel said, frowning. “Though I haven’t much time to speak.” Even now, the sea called to her, and her boat seemed out-of-place on the beach, ready to sail. She felt at peace with the knowledge that she would leave soon.

Dís crossed her arms, and her face seemed rather perplexed. Her bushy eyebrows rose. “Then it is good that we will have a sea’s worth of talking ahead.”

Tauriel considered her next words carefully, though her mind was still clouded with surprise and the remnants of a sleep marred with memories—happy, for once, and filled with smiles and jokes. “Dwarves cannot sail to the Undying Lands. That passage is reserved for my kin alone,” she said.

“Are you not going to Mahal’s own Halls, to find my son?” Dís eyed the boat again, this time with narrowed eyes, before glancing back at Tauriel with an expectant look.

Tauriel’s heart jumped into her throat, and she felt a familiar grief settle in her stomach. She didn’t imagine the resemblance, it seemed. Her hands almost felt heavy, as if they were holding onto that cool runestone again. She swallowed thickly. “No,” Tauriel said stiffly, and she nearly regretted the word as Dís’s face reddened before she drew herself up and masked her shock.

“I was told otherwise,” Dís said lowly. Her eyes burned like starlight. She made to speak more, but a sharp voice cut her off.

“Surely you haven’t given up?” The voice came from beside her, low to the ground, and Tauriel turned to face a Hobbit. Tauriel blinked. She had seen him before, first escaping in a wine barrel amongst Dwarves, and again on the ice of Ravenhill, looking so very small and alone next to the Dwarf king. Now, he seemed almost tall as he stared her down with a fierce determination, thumbs tucked into his waistcoat pockets.

Tauriel let out a shaky breath. “He is lost to me now,” she said, the words hoarse. It hurt to say them. She would meet him again, but not in the Halls. She remembered Kíli’s golden-haired brother and his king and uncle; the grief in the eyes of these two was fresh, it seemed, and her heart clenched painfully for them. “They are lost to us.” She cast her eyes out over the sea. The words left an unpleasant taste in her mouth, but the salty wind gave her a small comfort.

Dís bristled, but she still held herself with dignity and pride, rather than anger. “We will find another way, Bilbo,” she said coldly. Tauriel felt a small relief at that; they would find their own peace in time. She kept her eyes on the shifting waves.

Bilbo scowled. “My lady, we will need a ship of Elvish make.” He gave Tauriel a sharp look. “And you shouldn’t let yourself fade for grief because of a Dwarf!” he said, entirely indignant and haughty, though his voice wavered on the last word, and his hand drifted to touch something in his pocket. “They’re hardly worth it, my dear.”

“It is our nature to grieve deeply,” Tauriel said, with a humorless smile.

Bilbo snorted. “The nature of Elves is a dreadful thing, truly. The sea calls many of us strongly, but our hearts move on, preferably to doing something about our situation.”

“I am not fading, Master Hobbit: I go to my kin, to wait for the end times, when Arda is rebuilt,” Tauriel said, gesturing to the water. Bilbo followed her hand, and he looked rather lonely as he stared at the waves, before his face twitched into stony irritation.

“You would wait?” he asked, and his voice was as steely as any Dwarf’s. “You would do nothing when you could fight?” Dís fixed her with a piercing stare.

“I—” Tauriel paused. Her fingers trembled, and she felt that she was on the edge of a precipice. “We cannot do anything!” she insisted, stepping closer to the Hobbit. “You cannot even sail over the seas to Valinor.”

Dís reached into her clothes, and she pulled out a stone with a sharp and jerky motion. It was old, worn and scratched with age. She let it rest in the palm of her hand, upturned, so that Tauriel could see the familiar runes etched into the surface. “The road goes ever on,” Dís said, gazing at Tauriel with unblinking eyes. “For my sons and my brother, it went to Mahal and his eternal Halls. Our road points West. The path to them may be closed, but even if we sail around the world and return to this spot, would you not risk it to see him again?”

Tauriel’s heart constricted in her chest. To see Kíli again, now, before the world passed—she would fight an army until her bow had snapped and her daggers were broken; she would walk through an endless night until her feet bled and the stars all died. But to fight against Lord Aulë himself for Kíli’s life; it hardly seemed an option, and yet she hoped. “I would,” she whispered, and her voice was almost lost to the wind.

With a gentle touch, Dís pressed the runestone into Tauriel’s hand. “They are not lost to us,” she urged. “This fight has not yet ended.”

Tauriel squeezed her eyes shut. The song of the ocean seemed to have a different tone, one more of hope than of homesickness. “Yes,” she breathed.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm currently rewriting this from Bilbo's perspective, and I'd like to cover their trip to Valinor entirely. We'll see how that goes!


End file.
